The Space Between the Balconies
~/~
Luglio
Someone stole the sun.
Agosto
Someone burned the flowers.
Settembre
Someone threw black ink across the sky.
Ottobre
Everything was different. Everything changed.
Novembre
The world plunged into darkness at a crossroad somewhere in Prati. There was a white Fiat and a blue BMW, and then there was nothing. Ten seconds at that crossroad ravaged Lovino's life.
There were no more roses, gardenias, tulips, or daisies. Laughter evaporated into the air. The stall fell to pieces. There was nothing left in Campo de Fiori.
Dicembre
Nothing was left at all.
Gennaio
He
Was
All
Alone.
"There's someone new moving in today."
Lovino exhaled a breath of fresh smoke and gazed up and down the flights of stacked apartments. The fog dulled their yellow-orange colors. "I know," he replied blandly.
Ludwig glanced at him, his eyes dark and tired. He looked at Lovino with silent empathy. "What are you doing these days?"
"The same," Lovino said, "just more." He dragged his cigarette long and slow; his hands held it delicately, and his fingers were slightly shaking.
Ludwig turned away from the smoke. He pressed his lips together and finished the last drops of his beer. "I understand," he murmured.
It took a few moments, but Lovino conceded and acknowledged Ludwig with a curt nod.
He then stomped on the butt of his cigarette and lit a new one. Ludwig opened another beer.
"Ve~ Lovi!"
Lovino wiped sweat from his brow and glared at his brother. "What?" he demanded, as he finished stacking a crate of flowers atop another. They were fresh sunflowers from somewhere in Veneto.
Feliciano smiled wide, and his eyes flinted honey-brown in the sunlight. "You know that pizzeria in Trestevere? Ludwig invited me to go with him. Isn't that exciting?"
Lovino rolled his eyes and began fluffing the flowers out. "Not really. It'll be boring with someone like him."
Feliciano nudged Lovino's shoulder as he laughed along. "Don't say that about Luddy," Feli ordered playfully. "He's such a sweetheart. I think you two could really get along if you let yourselves."
Lovino rolled his eyes, and began posting prices near the flowerbeds; he tried to ignore the fastidious pangs of his heart.
Feliciano hummed a familiar but unplaceable tune for a few minutes, and then hopped by Lovino's side once again. His gentle touch was on Lovino's arm, and his smile beamed once again. "How about we go to our café for parfaits this afternoon?"
Gelato, biscotti, e panna. Lovino would always get Coppa Tiramisu and Feli would get a new one each time. Usually something fruity.
An unwilling, but charming smile betrayed Lovino's features. He tried to hide under the shade of the tent. "It's your turn to pay," he said, but there was no harshness in his voice.
Feliciano giggled and tackled his brother in a hug from behind.
It was too hot for hugs in the middle of a Roman July, but the fact never stopped them.
The warmth of the sun, the color of the flowers, the music of the crowds…
"Rome really suits you, you know?" Feli blurted on the walk to their café.
Lovino slowed his pace to concentrate on lighting his cigarette. One he caught a spark and inhaled the nicotine he glared at his brother. "What are you talking about?"
Feli grinned in that mysterious, faraway manner of his. "I was thinking today about how much Rome suits you. I can't see you living anywhere else. You really have the city's personality."
"Places don't have personalities."
"Yes, they do!"
Lovino pursed his lips, and continued smoking. The light was red when they crossed the street and the cars stopped for them.
"The way you walk so self-assured. The way you dress, and the way you smoke and drink…it's that unapologetic personality. An innate sense of self. I think all Italians have it, but Romans have it in the same way you do. A little bit…"
"Crass?" Lovino offered sarcastically. His eyes drifted to some half-assed graffiti painted on a nearby wall. "Dirty?"
"…A little bit jaded, I think."
Lovino's eyebrows puckered. "Not the word I would've chosen."
Feliciano giggled. "Well, you've never been the type to see yourself clearly. I don't think you'll ever be able to actually."
"That sounds like an insult somehow," Lovino grumbled. He threw his cigarette to the ground, stomped on it, and kept walking.
Feliciano's eyes still sparkled with that distant intensity. He was always watching something faraway; Lovino was afraid to think that Feli might have been able to see the future. "You know how Romans are so desensitized to the greatness of their city? I think you're desensitized to the greatness of yourself."
A red and fierce blush colored Lovino's cheeks. He scrambled for a fast and annoyed response. "Jesus Christ, Feli. I help run a stand for flowers, I'm not jumping into burning buildings and saving babies."
Feliciano didn't laugh that time—Lovino remembered that. He always thought that was odd.
Instead of laughing, Feliciano gave him that eerie and silent smile: it was a reminder of his demure intelligence Lovino so often forgot about.
That moment lasted an eternity and ended in the blink of an eye.
Lovino's eyes drifted away from his reverie when he noticed his cigarette was about finished. He tiredly crushed it against the side of the wall and let it fall to the floor. He didn't know whether to fish out another one or not.
In spare minutes of indecision he noticed the sun was setting. Shadows caught the ancient and intricate carvings of the architecture: the buildings came alive.
And usually around this time the streets and sidewalks were fairly tranquil. Only one or two passersby per fifteen minutes. There'd already been three in the past ten, so Lovino was surprised when he heard an orchestra of sounds echoing from the left side of the sidewalk.
Curiously and somewhat reluctantly, Lovino turned his head: he watched a young man of about thirty years of age roll down the sidewalk, two suitcases and an oversized backpack in tow. It was quite a sight.
The man appeared fairly balanced with the luggage – which itself was quite a marvel – and instead seemed preoccupied with the numbers of the buildings. He stopped at once, turned in the other direction and paused at the corner, before retracing his steps towards Lovino once again.
God, what a tourist.
Lovino fidgeted with the cigarettes in his pocket just as he mentally debated the ethical options. There was a soft Italian voice in his head that told him to talk to the curly-haired man. It was the same Italian voice Lovino had been trying to ignore for months now, still to no avail.
He sighed, let go of his box of his cigarettes, and walked to the man.
Lovino knew only two languages – Italian and English – but he didn't know which one to pin on this guy. He didn't look like he belonged to either really, but setting his shabby clothes aside, there was definitely something Mediterranean about him.
…Perhaps English would be best just in case.
"Hello," Lovino announced awkwardly. He coughed a little; there was still smoke in his lungs.
The man turned away from the building, and his bright green eyes darted to Lovino. He flashed a wide and brilliant smile. "Oh, ciao!" he said, and took long and fast steps closer. They were standing face to face, when the man continued, "Um, dónd—dove es—um…e…" he trailed off into a laugh.
Lovino sighed. So he was Spanish. "What do you need?" he asked tiredly.
"Oh, you speak English?" the man exclaimed, his accent trilling over the words a bit too fast. After Lovino nodded, he said, "Great! Ah, I'm looking for building number twenty-six. Do you know where that is?"
Lovino started walking and gestured over his shoulder for the man to follow. They didn't need to walk more than ten steps to arrive at a large and old wooden door. There were names and buttons to the side.
"This is it?" the man asked, already laughing again. "Ay, I guess I walked right by it and didn't know. These signs are a bit confusing, no?"
Lovino didn't reply, and instead hunted for his box of cigarettes to pull one out. "Are you with the Bielschmidts?"
The man appeared a bit taken aback, but smiled anyway. "Si, I am. Do you know them?"
Lovino shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "They're in apartment number eleven," he said instead and pressed the button next to the speaker. "It's on the fourth floor. There's an elevator."
"Really?"
Lovino lit his cigarette.
"Hm, well that's nice. I didn't think Rome would have many—"
"Pronto?" the speaker said.
The Spaniard jumped to action and pressed the button to reply. "Hola—er, ciao! Est—Io…sono Antonio. Su—il tuo nuev—nuovo—"
"Oh, for the love of—just shut the hell up. We're not Italian either idiot. Just speak English."
Antonio chuckled, and responded with a bit more confidence. "Sorry, sorry. I saw the name was German, but I didn't know what else to say."
"Eh, it's whatever. We get that a lot. Do you want me to buzz you in?"
"Si, that'd be great!"
The door unlocked and Lovino made the move to hold it open for Antonio. He held the doorknob with one hand and his cigarette with the other. Antonio snuck by him, lugging his two oversized suitcases and backpack behind. They shared an awkward glance. Lovino wanted nothing more than to hide away in his room and get a glass of wine; and for the first time in the past five minutes, he sensed that Antonio might've felt the same way. The green eyes were deterring. Lovino hadn't caught the guarded sheen and tense smile that came with them. Antonio didn't want to talk to Lovino at all.
But apparently, he was polite.
"Thank you," Antonio said shortly.
Lovino's eyes flicked to him and away in a second. "Niente," he mumbled, and he let the doorknob fall from his grasp. The wooden door fell shut, and locked with a strong boom.
Like the gates that guarded people's hearts.
…
"Lovi?"
The voice echoed in the still of the night. Lovino wasn't asleep, he was staring at the ceiling fan. "Yeah?" he replied eventually.
"How many people do you love?"
Lovino laughed lightly. It was always after three glasses of wine that Feliciano started waxing poetic. And it was after five that Lovino began to play along. "Not many," he said.
Feli hummed. "How many?"
Lovino was quiet and thought. He pondered the question very deeply. "I," he began, "I…three people."
"Mm," Feliciano acknowledged vaguely. "Tell me who they are."
Lovino shook his head and wished his smile would go away. It was the wine. It was the Roman summer heat and the wine for sure. Being around Feliciano didn't help either. He started his list after a breath laugh, "Mama, of course. Nonno Roma. And…you."
Feliciano burst into a fit of giggles. He was lying on the other side of Lovino's bed, but swiftly rolled over and wrapped his brother in an affectionate hug. "No, Lovi. You're too cute! I can't take it. Just stop! Sei troppo carino. Troppo. Troppisimo."
Lovino was laughing too. "I am not, damn it. You always say that, and what have I told you? You don't know a thing. I'm the one who's always right."
"Ve~ you're so silly. That's not true at all," Feliciano teased, and he slowly regained his breath. The laughter stilled to a pleasant tipsy aura. Emotions danced around the room, and the truth lingered on their tongues, ready to slip out.
"Lovi," Feliciano whispered, "why do you love so few people?"
Lovino's eyes followed the fan; he forced himself not to feel the burn. "I don't trust many people," he replied. The words digested for a moment. "Honestly, I…I don't think I can ever trust anyone more than you."
Contrary to the usual, Feliciano's hands loosened. "That's not true," he said fervently. "You know it's not."
Lovino didn't say anything. He was torn between nodding off and starting a riling debate about the new German boyfriend.
And during that silence, the fan still turned. It worked hard to blow away the melancholy that settled in the room. Instead, it revealed some sensitivity that had been dusted over.
"Lovino…"
"Yeah?"
"Mama and nonno are gone."
Lovino sighed his reply, "I know."
Feliciano's forehead laid against Lovino's arm. "You can love many people. You know that."
Lovino's breath was shakier. He didn't trust himself to speak.
"Lovi," Feli murmured. He spoke in his softest Italian. "I know, you know I know… your heart."
That song.
Tears already bubbled at the corners of Lovino's eyes, but he knew how he was supposed to reply.
"…I know you know, I've seen you know…my heart."
"Hey there! You must be Toni then."
Antonio was a bit surprised when his suitcases were suddenly swept away from him by a tall and blonde German fellow. The other even fairer one was already giving him a nickname.
"Si, I am," Antonio replied a bit late. He smiled at the brisk affection.
The man extended his hand. "You don't mind if I call you Toni, do you? Antonio seemed like a bit of a mouthful."
"For god's sake Toni, we need to go. Toni? Toni, really. Toni."
"Toni! Toni darling, dinner's ready. What are you doing over there? Toni, come on, we need to go the store. Toni! Toni. Toni? Toni…"
"It's perfectly fine," Antonio smiled, and shook hands.
The man – the one with the red eyes – laughed and gripped Antonio's hand tight. "That's awesome! My name's Gilbert, and that was my brother Ludwig who just stole your bags."
Ludwig was strolling back into the room, and he frowned at his brother.
"It's nice to meet you," Antonio said to both of them. "Have you guys lived in Rome for very long?"
Gilbert pursed his lips. "We've lived here for about two years now. Not that long. We moved here for work—we're both in the car industry."
"Oh, really? That's so cool!" Antonio exclaimed. He snuck glances into the small, clean kitchen and narrow hallway. Though it wasn't fancy, everything was in perfect order.
Ludwig replied first this time, saying, "I'm afraid it's hardly as interesting as it sounds. Really, we just—"
"Yeah, it's pretty cool," Gilbert interrupted brashly. "We work on engineering for Ferrari, so you could say we're basically professional race car drivers."
"You could, but that would be a blatant lie," Ludwig commented dryly.
Antonio laughed, and carefully set his heavy backpack to the floor. He rubbed his shoulders, and let his eyes wander the walls again.
"So what brings you to Rome?" Gilbert asked. "Work? Family?...amore?" he said the last word with poor Italian drama.
Antonio smiled anyway. "None of the above," he replied. "I guess I just felt like it."
Ludwig's eyes observed him rather carefully. "Really? Do you not know anyone here? Anyone at all?"
A pleasant lightness tickled Antonio's chest when he said the words, "Nope. Not a soul."
I'm finally in a place I don't belong.
I'm finally alone.
"So Ludwig sleeps in that room. I sleep over there." Gilbert was giving Antonio a tour of the apartment, and pointing to each room as he went along. It wasn't a large apartment, but it managed to fit a lot.
They arrived at the last room down the hall, and Gilbert opened the door.
"And this is your room," he said, and gestured for Antonio to go inside. "It's about the same size as mine, so don't worry. Damn Ludwig snagged the biggest one."
Antonio walked inside and found his suitcases already leaning against the side of a bed of average size. The walls of the room were plain and white; a few basic décor paintings hung here and there. It was perfectly standard.
"I know, I know," Gilbert drawled, as he sped ahead of Antonio. "It's pretty small. But look—it has a balcony! Mine does too. It comes in handy. I don't know whether you smoke or not, but it's also useful for laundry. Ludwig has to use a drying rack indoors."
Antonio followed him outside the glass doors and onto the balcony.
"It's no view of a park or some shit, but it's still a pretty decent view," Gilbert said, and his hand gestured to the apartment building across from them, and to their right and left. Apartment buildings surrounded a small garden shared by all of them: it was meager and Italian. The buildings were simple too, but undeniably charming.
Several of the balconies had clothes strung out to dry, others had small chairs and tables; some had flowers and plants.
Antonio's eyes slid up and down and back and forth the buildings; he tried to take in the view. It wasn't beautiful, but there was something aesthetically appealing in the grittiness and reality of it all. He liked it. He liked seeing the old men holding glasses of wine and walking around the garden. He liked seeing the middle-aged woman bring in her dried laundry. He liked seeing children excitedly blowing bubbles. He liked watching all of it. But somehow, Antonio's eyes got stuck on one particular balcony, belonging to the apartment right across from him.
"It's nice, huh? You can do some pretty neat people watching. It's weirdly addicting. Nothing's really private around here."
The balcony was bare. There were no flowers or laundry. It was just the railing, and the table, and two chairs. Only one of them was occupied though: it was the man from earlier. The Italian in the long, black coat.
He was smoking a cigarette, alternating between holding it delicately in his fingers and lulling it between his lips. His legs were crossed, his pose was relaxed…he was staring at the space in front of him. Nothing was there.
Gilbert caught Antonio's line of sight. "Do you know Lovino?" he asked, his voice suddenly very curious.
Antonio laughed lightly and shrugged off the suggestion. "No, not really. He helped me find the apartment. That's all."
"Ah, I see," was all Gilbert replied. There was an awkward pause as his eyes traveled to Lovino and back again. "He's, uh…Lovino's a…friend of Ludwig's."
"Uh-huh." Antonio nodded courteously, though he didn't really care. He didn't want to hear any of it.
Gilbert was still frowning in the direction of Lovino's apartment; Antonio's boredom didn't register with him. He continued, saying, "Listen, would you let me know if there are any…" Gilbert pressed his lips together. "Well, just let me know if anything comes up, all right?" A smirk was back on his face, and he gave Antonio a light pat on the shoulder before walking back into the room. Gilbert said they were making dinner at eight, and Antonio should get settled in beforehand. The door closed behind him.
Antonio remained on the balcony.
He crossed his arms over the railing and gazed at the apartment across from him. Lovino was still sitting there. He held a match in his hand and lit a new cigarette. Antonio didn't miss the slight shudder of relief when Lovino inhaled the first breath. He didn't miss how the knots in Lovino's body undid themselves with every drag. He didn't miss how Lovino's eyes drew further and further away.
Antonio didn't want to know him. He didn't want to know him at all.
But he couldn't help but stare across the drift, at the space between the balconies. Antonio inhaled the smoke that blew his way, and slowly the stress in his back undid itself too.
"It's raining today."
"No shit."
Ludwig frowned. "I was just trying to make conversation," he muttered, and his gaze shifted down the street briefly. He looked at Lovino again. "Are you sure you don't want my umbrella?"
Lovino had his hood pulled over his hair, but raindrops still glistened fresh against his cheeks. He glared at Ludwig. "Does it look like I need a fucking umbrella?"
Ludwig groaned in mild frustration and turned away. He was trying to keep in contact with Lovino. He tried every single day. But why did Lovino have to make it so hard?
He took a few deep breaths and concentrated on the hum of the rain, the echo in the street, the reflections of the cars in the wet pavement. There was something missing. A phantom limb.
Suddenly, Ludwig said, "Feliciano never minded the rain either." His voice was wistful. He hadn't even realized he'd said it.
And the calm shattered.
Lovino left, like a flash of lightning.
Ludwig gazed after him, and for a moment, he thought he saw someone about the same height, about the same build, and just a little bit fairer skipping beside him.
Ludwig let himself believe it for a little bit longer.
"I wish the world were made of flowers."
Lovino did much of the same thing nowadays. It didn't change much. The content never changed, though the order and amount sometimes did.
He slept…sometimes. He drank café macchiato, espresso, and cappuccinos much more.
He smoked cigarettes every hour.
He worked late, and he worked a lot. His job was at a bar in Trastevere. It was the young and exciting neighborhood where all the up-and-coming lived. But he only worked there at night, and it was a different world then.
…there was no light anymore.
This was it.
"Instead of grass, there would be daisies. Just daisies.
"Instead of cement, there would be buttercups.
"Instead of trees, there would be sunflowers."
Lovino hated his apartment. He refused to decorate it. He refused to do anything at all to it. The inside was all white walls, plain floors, and blank space. He was fine with it that way; he was never the one to change things.
The only thing that made the apartment worthwhile was the balcony. It was all he truly needed.
The balcony was a small step to another world. It was a piece of the sky Lovino was allowed to sit on. He was safe, he was alone, and he could smoke. Sometimes he drank too.
Usually, that's all it was. Lovino would light a cigarette, smoke, and repeat. He didn't do anything else. He didn't want to do anything else. He couldn't do anything else.
His mind was paralyzed in a way he didn't know how to fix.
But his eyes could still move. And though he wouldn't bat an eyelash for a house fire or a domestic fight, lately Lovino had been distracted by the balcony across from him. The one where the odd Spaniard named Antonio lived.
"Everyone would walk around barefoot, everything would be fresh and soft."
Antonio didn't do much…that's what Lovino noticed after a while.
Since Lovino worked for most of the night, his mornings were usually free. Antonio was almost always there on the balcony, despite the winter chill.
He alternated between standing up and sitting down, it was never the same in that way. And when Antonio was out there, he looked at Lovino rather often. Neither of them did anything but stare into space, so their gazes were fated to coincide.
But that was it.
Lovino would hold his fifteenth cigarette of the day between the shaking fingers of a body that buzzed with too much caffeine, and he'd let his red-tinged eyes tiredly and unabashedly wander the planes of Antonio's face. And Antonio let him, because Antonio did the same.
There was something inexplicably soothing about Antonio. Sometimes there were people you just liked to look at. Lovino concluded that Antonio was one of those people.
Perhaps it was because he was enigmatic. Lovino had his clouds of smoke, but Antonio had a glass shield over his eyes. They were as dark and mysterious as emeralds. They always were. And they regarded Lovino in a way that didn't quite make sense.
Lovino liked to trace the faraway lines of Antonio's face: his nose, his eyebrows, his eyes and eyelashes. Antonio had a beautiful mouth too; Lovino knew that upon first introduction. It was quick as a whip to smile, but Lovino quite liked it when it was relaxed too. Antonio's lips were naturally tilted upwards, but when he wasn't paying attention, there was a melancholic weight that lingered there. Lovino imaged they were secrets, conversations, screams, cries, and just words that weren't allowed to break free. Lovino imagined that Antonio had quite a lot to say.
But they didn't say any of it to each other. They just stared.
And Antonio would rest his chin in his hand as Lovino pulled the cigarette away from his lips.
"If the world were made of flowers, it would be a much gentler place."
"…You're fucking weird, Feli."
Rain and rain again. It rained a lot in Rome.
Antonio was casually tuning his guitar on the balcony. He had his shoes perched on the wire table, and the guitar resting in his lap. His fingers flew instinctively across the strings and the tuning keys, as his eyes wandered wistfully to the closed glass doors of the balcony across from him.
The blinds of the windows beside it were drawn. Antonio spotted Lovino near the counter of his kitchen. There was an espresso brewer in front of him.
Antonio hummed and strummed a few random keys.
Then there was a knock on the door, and suddenly, Gilbert was on the balcony too.
"Hey there Toni," he called, and freely took a seat in the chair beside him.
Antonio winced slightly at the nickname, and he halted in his strumming. Then he smiled. "Hey, how's it going?"
Gilbert chuckled as he loosened his tie. He and Ludwig were always wearing suits. "Eh, you know. Same old, same old. It's still too damn cold around here."
"Yeah, it's a lot colder than Spain."
Gilbert nodded his head, while his eyes flicked to the guitar. "Do you play?"
Antonio shrugged. "I used to. I thought I might try to pick it up again."
"Were you a musician or something?"
Antonio's laugh came out a little breathless. "Maybe. Kind of. A long time ago I might've been something like that," he answered vaguely, still smiling.
"Somehow that sounds like a very Spanish thing," Gilbert commented, and he was relaxing further into the chair. A few moments of breaths, Italian echoes, and car engines went by. Gilbert asked, "So what were you thinking of doing for work around here?"
Antonio sighed a little before placing the guitar on the floor. "I've never really had a consistent job. I've just done a variety of odd jobs here and there. I guess I'll have to pick something up soon." He didn't say it with much conviction, but in his heart, Antonio knew he had to.
It's not as though he was lazy, or that he didn't want to work. But Antonio's idea of how to live – the way he wanted to live – was different than what most people want. Jobs are just jobs to him. He doesn't care what he gets. As long as it's physical, worthwhile, and pays decently, that's fine with him. A job was literally a means to an end. There's so much more to life than work.
But looking into Gilbert's strong and flashing red eyes, Antonio wasn't quite sure he would understand that.
"I can help you look for one if you like. I have connections here and there," Gilbert offered casually.
Antonio smiled at the gesture. "Thank you. I'll let you know."
"No problem," Gilbert replied, and he slouched further into the chair. There was a gentle breeze that mussed his hair.
After a few too many quiet moments, Antonio picked up his guitar, and began strumming it. Gilbert was alternating glances between his phone and something in the distance, and the simple chords of music painted the ambience in pensive hues.
"I was thinking about getting a job in construction," Antonio said suddenly, his fingers still moving gracefully.
Gilbert was staring into space when he replied, "Well, there's plenty of that around here. Do you like physical work?"
"I do. It feels pure, or wholesome to me…it's hard to explain."
"No, I think I get it."
"It'd also be good for my language. I understand most Italian so that shouldn't be a problem," Antonio continued thoughtfully, and his gaze slowly trailed back to the balcony across from them. He saw Lovino standing near the stove, but something was different. He was holding a glass cup, and he was holding it very tightly. Then in an instant, Lovino was alive again. It took less than three seconds for him to hurl the glass across the room: shattering the quiet along with the glass.
It was loud enough to echo into the space between the balconies. Gilbert was fast to check it out; he jumped to his feet and leaned over the railing to get a better look. Antonio's body moved much slower. His senses were already dulled; his emotions had been conquered and taken away. The gates were so tall, so large and so many, it took ages for anything to reach his heart.
But eventually, he managed a redundant, "What was that?" Antonio was well aware of what it was, but he wasn't so sure Gilbert was.
In fact, Gilbert was studying Lovino's apartment with so much intensity, a mild curiosity pulsed in Antonio's veins. Perhaps there was more to it…
"Lovino broke something," Gilbert commented dryly. His hands were gripping the railing tightly; the skin over his knuckles was taught and white.
Antonio watched the window, and he watched the slow, deadpanned scene of Lovino leaning over the counter, head in his hands. He was moving slightly, ever so slightly: it was just a quake in his shoulders. He might've been crying.
Antonio thought he should say something. "Do you think he's okay?"
Gilbert's lips were pressed tight together. "Yeah…" he murmured reluctantly. "As okay as he can be I guess." Gilbert slowly undid his grip of the railing, and backed into the chair. "It was probably an accident," he added a little later. By the glare of his eye and the fold of his arms, it looked as though it was taking a lot of willpower not to scream.
Antonio nodded silently to the lie. He stayed near the railing until Lovino left the counter. Then he also returned to his chair. He didn't pick up his guitar though. The sound of breaking glass kept trickling through his mind.
He thought he should ask something. Antonio thought he should've asked this a long time ago.
"How do you know him?"
Gilbert's expression darkened pensively. "It's kind of complicated, I guess."
Antonio waited.
"Lovino…well, I only know him through Ludwig really. We hung out on a few occasions. Never for very long. He's always been a bit of a loner. He's more so now, but," Gilbert closed his eyes and sighed. "Lovino's brother dated Ludwig for a year."
Antonio didn't know what he was expecting, but certainly not that. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh really? That's interesting," he responded sincerely. After a few beats, he pushed, "Did they break up or something?"
"No," Gilbert said, and his voice was even. "Feliciano died six months ago."
Was the glass still shattering?
Antonio could barely hear his voice when he coughed a faint, "What?"
"Lovino's brother Feliciano…a nice guy. A really nice guy. That kind of crazy Italian happy, you know?" Gilbert glanced at Antonio briefly, perhaps gaging his reaction. He drummed his fingers on the wire table, and his gaze flit back to Lovino's window. "He was really good for Ludwig. And Ludwig was good for him too. I think even Lovino knew that, though he never said it."
Someone was rattling the gates. Antonio felt something scratch at the iron, trying to touch his heart. What was it exactly? He didn't know. But whatever it was, it hurt. God, it hurt so much. It was always this way with him; if Antonio let himself feel, it was always like this.
He was devastated for Ludwig. He mourned for love that was torn too early.
He was devastated for Feliciano. Antonio didn't know him, but anyone taken so young, so promising, and so vivacious…it's just awful. It's horrible.
And he was devastated for Lovino. He couldn't even imagine—he couldn't even comprehend—it's so otherworldly, so terrible, so ghastly, and so overwhelming…Antonio doesn't even get along with his brother, and he knew he'd be sad if he died. And by the sound of it, Lovino and Feliciano were so much closer.
"He was Lovino's best friend."
Of course he was. Would the glass ever stop?
"Sometimes I wonder if he was Lovino's only friend."
It was like being in a church. Antonio was sitting at a pew; Lovino was sitting at the one across from him. And while the organ played some vague and familiar song, birds flew through the stained glass windows. They splintered, they broke; they fell to the ground in pieces. And it took hours. There was so much glass of so many hues.
Gilbert exhaled loud and tiredly. "Damn it. Life just sucks, doesn't it?" He slumped over his knees and stared at the window.
Antonio saw the glint of blue and purple shards in the space in front of him. He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes.
His first thought was perhaps he cut himself on the corners of the glass when it cascaded around him.
But no.
That's not true.
Gilbert turned to him, and his eyebrows were furrowed. "Are you crying?" he asked softly, kind of incredulously.
Well, fuck.
Antonio shook his head once, twice. He tried to force a laugh as he grabbed his guitar, but he only managed two chords before he collapsed over the wood and strings and sobbed.
There was a dent in the gate.
Just fuck.
Lovino skipped work. He couldn't go. He couldn't.
He shoved the glass to a corner. He didn't sweep it up; he shoved it with his shoe and left it there. Now that the sun had set, and a few dim lights were on, the shards glittered in their corner. Lovino might've been staring at it for hours as he drank wine, glass after glass.
Lovino hated his apartment. He hated it very much. But at the same time, he was terrified of leaving it. It seemed silly to think he may have some sort of agoraphobia or whatever it's called—Lovino wasn't sick. He wasn't weak. He wasn't crazy.
He was just petrified.
So instead of mixing cocktails, pouring beer, and wiping countertops, Lovino was at his shitty little apartment, tipsy off of half a bottle of. He didn't want to sit on the facts for so long. He shuffled onto the balcony for a smoke.
It was biting, and it was quiet. Lovino pulled out one of the wire chairs and winced at the grating scratch of metal. He sat down, and curled one leg to his chest. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
…
God, it was glorious.
It did nothing for the shivers in his back or the tremors in his back, but it did relax his chest just a bit.
His gaze was stuck in the dark space. He wasn't looking at anything. He wasn't thinking anything. This is what his life was.
"Lovi, please."
Shut up.
"I want to go to Piazza Venezia today."
Shut up.
"We haven't done anything together in weeks."
"Oh yeah? And whose fault is that?"
SHUT UP.
Lovino crushed the cigarette in his hand at the same time he clenched his eyes shut. There was a tinge of burn, but not really. What was a little of physical annoyance compared to the nightmares galloping and bucking in his head?
He felt his throat closing, his heart pounding. Mio Dio, light a cigarette. Light one.
Lovino could barely control his hands; he had to grab a cigarette, he had to find the lighter. One step at a time. Come on. Breathe. Vai. Do it. Breathe. Breathe. Brea—
"Shh. Todo está bien," someone whispered. "Está bien. Calma. Calma."
Lovino's heartbeat stuttered in fright. His eyes darted to the voice in a frenzy, but then he realized…it was Antonio. Just Antonio. That odd Spaniard.
Antonio was on the balcony across from him, sitting in a wire chair just like Lovino's, with eyes red-tinged, dark, and tired—just like Lovino's. His expression wasn't as hard as usual; he looked at Lovino rather desperately, like he was waiting.
But Lovino couldn't talk.
Antonio's face was stressed. It took a few moments. Then he suddenly picked up a brown acoustic guitar and plopped it on his lap. "What song?"
Song?
"Is there anything you would like me to play for you?"
…
I know you know
I've seen you know
My heart
Lovino's throat closed; it felt as though a boa was wrapped around his neck. He didn't have any tears left to offer the snake.
"No, no. Calma. Est—it's okay," Antonio urged passionately.
Lovino was wheezing when he stared at Antonio. He didn't understand what was happening. What did they want from each other?
Antonio was pursing those beautiful lips of his. His dark green eyes were black in the darkness. He flashed a white smile. "I know something," he said, and started strumming. "Just listen, Lovino," he ordered gently.
As if Lovino could do anything else.
Antonio strummed a few chords, he picked up a steady rhythm, and suddenly he was playing a song. It was so sweet. So gentle. Lovino knew this song.
Gymnopedie No. 1
Yes, that's what it was. It was smooth, simple, and lovely. Lovino had heard it more often on the piano, but there was something about the guitar that softened it. The way Antonio's fingers caressed the music, it felt tender somehow.
He could breathe.
Antonio's eyes were on him the entire time. Strong and dark and faintly glinting by the light of the balcony. He was the lighthouse. He was helping Lovino home.
Lovino stared at him and kept breathing.
Lovino stared at him and picked up a cigarette.
Lovino stared at him and he turned on the lighter.
Lovino's fingers stopped trembling; he let out a shaky gasp.
Antonio smiled and kept playing. Smoke filled the air once again.
The next day, Antonio hung his laundry out to dry on the balcony. There was no sun, but it wasn't raining.
As he pinned his shirt to the wire, he looked across the way, and he saw Lovino still curled in his chair, his eyes closed and his face relaxed. The ashtray was filled to the brim, the box of cigarettes was empty, and the lighter lied unused. It was like an artist's still life, but amazingly, Lovino was breathing. Slowly and deeply, he continued to breathe.
Antonio finished hanging his clothes, and left the balcony.
When he returned at dusk to pick his clothes off of the drying rack, Antonio noticed something peculiar. He pressed the cotton to his nose and inhaled.
Everything smelled of tobacco.
To be continued...